when the bells all ring
by greatestheights
Summary: "Barely an hour old, and the leader of the free world wants to make her acquaintance. She's on her way. Maybe she'll be a cabinet member by the time she's five." A snapshot of Josh and Donna, two hours into parenthood.


_**Notes:**_ Part seven in my "Collection of Prompts" series. Prompt: "Exhausted parents kiss."

Full disclosure: I spent an unreasonable amount of time listening to three different versions of _What Are You Doing New Year's Eve?_ in the middle of the summer. I am not ashamed.

* * *

It's been close to forty-three hours since Josh last slept, but he's not counting. Not really. In some ways, he's never felt more unblinkingly, heart-stoppingly awake. Josh had thought he understood exhaustion intimately, was sure he'd discovered every flavor of it. He knew about staying up all night to bullshit his way through approximately five hundred term papers and one badly written (but passable) thesis. He knew that three hours of sleep a night or less for roughly a year—plus Redbull, coffee, sheer adrenaline, and the occasional lucky break—was the best way to get a guy elected to the highest office in the land. He knew about late nights drafting bills. He knew the ragged, awful emptiness following a panic attack. He knew alcohol, maybe a little too well.

Josh hadn't known about this, though. _This,_ as in, a baby. As in, having a baby. As in, Donna shaking him awake at four in the morning almost two days ago, hissing, "Why did you have to jinx it?"

(Three months previously:

"Hey, Donna? Do you think anyone has ever actually been born on their due date? I mean, don't doctors just guesstimate these things based on when you're pretty sure you drunkenly forgot the condom?"

"I was born on my due date."

"You were not."

"I was! Eight AM on May 5th, as scheduled. Besides, the due date's just to prepare you. I'm trying to think of it as a window."

"Why are you so freakishly punctual?"

"It's one of my many delightful qualities. I can only hope the baby takes after me."

"No way. Any kid of mine is gonna make a splash."

"What the hell do you mean, 'a splash'?"

"You know, an _entrance_. A memorable one, too."

"I don't want the baby to make an entrance, Josh. I want her to arrive quietly, with minimal fuss. Ideally at a reasonable hour. Ideally on the very same day we expect her, or shortly before."

"Wouldn't it be great it if she showed up on New Year's?"

"No."

"That would be the best birthday ever. The first day of the year!"

"That would also be three entire weeks early."

"So?"

"You're jinxing it! Stop grinning like that—you're _jinxing_ it. I'm not talking to you."

"I'm not jinxing anything. When did you stop finding me funny?"

"About five seconds after I saw the second pink line."

"Oh, yeah. That. Hey, by the way, you've never looked better. What's the word people always use? Glowing? Yeah, you look…glow-y. Also, I love you."

"If this kid is born on New Year's, I'm probably going to kill you.")

It's eleven PM on New Year's Eve. Josh is out in the hallway, finishing the obligatory phone calls, and reliving every detail of the last hour and a half. It had all been so frighteningly real—a surprising amount of blood, a parade of suspiciously calm nurses, a white-faced Donna on the verge of tears or murder or both, shouting, vague panic, _true_ panic, Josh's endless stream of useless encouragements and expletives. And then, at ten PM on the dot: a baby.

The labor had dragged on for days, but the delivery itself seemed to happen in the space of a breath. One minute, Donna had been pushing, and the next Dr. Bennett was saying, "Yes, okay, that's it! One more!" And then, the crying had started, and Josh forgot how to think, forgot how to do anything but stand there, clutching Donna's hand. The doctor called him Dad, and he'd just gaped at her.

"Do you want to cut the cord?" Dr. Bennett had asked.

He did.

The rest seemed to rush by at an impossible speed: Josh, swaying slightly, clamping the cord like he'd promised he would and taking in his daughter's unbelievably perfect, squashed, wailing face. Trying to keep his hands from shaking, trying to do this thing right, all while blinking back that strange mix of weariness and awe. A nurse practically pushing him out of the way when it was over, armed with a towel. Donna repeating, "Josh, can I see her? Is she okay? Can I see her?" A flurry of movement and suctioning, poking and prodding, and then, finally, Dr. Bennett settling the baby on Donna's chest.

"You have a beautiful, healthy baby girl," the doctor had told them. "Congratulations."

Donna had gasped, Josh had scrambled to get to them—to reach for them—and the baby must have stopped crying roughly about the time Josh touched her for the first time, his fingers trembling on the back of her head. Donna's hand had covered his, and they bent in together to get a better look. To meet their daughter.

Now, out in the hallway, Josh pockets his phone, scrubs the heels of his hands over the grittiness of his eyes. Takes a long, slow breath. Goes back inside to see his family.

"How's everybody doing in here?" he croaks, poking his head through the door.

"We are bonding," Donna says, beaming down at the baby, who's now balanced in the crook of her arm. "We are not yet interested in breastfeeding, apparently."

"You'd think she'd be hungry," Josh says, unable to bite back his smirk.

"I know I am. Did you get me pizza?"

"Toby's gonna sneak in with it."

"Toby! He's coming?"

"Reluctantly. At least, that's what he's pretending." Josh drags one of the chairs up to the bedside and leans forward, arms propped on his knees. The baby's sleeping, which, yeah. She'd be sleepy.

"You know he can't wait to make you smoke a cigar while he regales you with fatherhood horror stories," Donna murmurs, rolling her eyes. "Is he bringing good pizza? Can he even get good pizza on New Year's Eve?"

"He said for you, he'd fly to Brooklyn and back. Since, you know, that's the only place they make a decent pie. 'If ever a woman deserved decent pizza, it's Donna,' says Toby. Let's see…he also says you're quite the fighter and I should be so lucky if you ever look at me sideways again, much less do anything else. He may have slipped a mazel tov or two in there. It was hard to tell."

"Oh, Toby," Donna says. She runs the tip of her finger over the baby's cheek. "Okay. Who else?"

"Well, your parents' flight is still delayed. I told your mom her granddaughter says to hurry up, and then she screeched in my ear. I see where you get it from."

"Yes, we Moss women have developed a genetic resistance to your bullshit."

"So it would seem," Josh mutters. "This one's teenage years don't exactly bode well for me."

"Nope. And your mom?"

"Her ticket's booked for next Sunday. She didn't want to crowd us. She cried a bunch, sends love, etcetera, etcetera."

"Aw. Sam?"

"Sam's still at work. He's gonna stop by in the morning and take care of letting some other people know. Then, the President got on the line and told me he wants to meet this young lady in person as soon as her mother sees fit."

Donna laughs and shifts upright in bed, gingerly cradling the baby's head.

"Barely an hour old, and the leader of the free world wants to make her acquaintance. She's on her way. Maybe she'll be a cabinet member by the time she's five."

"We can dream," Josh says, leaning forward even further and stroking the back of the baby's hand. "God, she's tiny. Nobody prepares you for that. I mean, you think you know, but—look at her fingernails, Donna."

"And her nose!"

"How is she real?"

"I don't know," Donna says, grinning over at Josh, her eyes brimming with tears. "I can't believe it."

"Me, either," Josh says. "And hey—she made it in the last couple hours of 2009. See? No jinx."

"Yes jinx," Donna groans, "but I'm too goddamn tired to kill you, and the pain meds are wearing off. It'll have to wait."

"A New Year's Eve birthday. Last day of the year! I think that's just as good as being born on New Year's Day. Y'know, still dramatic, but kind of cooler? She gets parties and booze. New Year's babies get, like, hangovers. And resolutions."

"Would you stop rambling about the date?" Donna sniffs, trying to look annoyed. "We still need to pick a name!"

Josh blinks.

"Crap," he says. "I almost forgot about that part."

"You know, I almost did, too." Donna pinches the bridge of her nose with her free hand and sniffs again. "I have never been this tired. I feel like it's going to suffocate me."

"Let me take her," Josh says, holding out his hands. "You rest."

"We have to pick a name!"

"I don't think she'll mind being Baby Girl Moss-Lyman for a few more hours. C'mon, you need to sleep. I'd say you've earned it."

"I just…" Donna bites her lip. "I really don't want to miss anything."

"You won't," Josh says, and smooths back Donna's hair. "We'll sit right here and wait for you. If something good happens, I'll wake you up." Donna laughs, the baby makes a little noise in her sleep, and God, Josh thinks as he stares down at them, this is what Toby meant all those years ago when he was shouting about dropping napalm on Yellowstone if someone tried to hurt his kids, this is it, this is the _point_ , this is the thing Josh had spent so long fumbling around and very nearly missed—and so he kisses Donna, because there's no other way to explain. It's clumsy; Josh bends awkwardly over the hospital bed, his hand slipping onto her cheek as she sighs into him, his nose mashing up against hers. She tastes so familiar, now.

Donna draws back, pressing her forehead against his. Josh closes his eyes, brushes his lips against her temple.

There's a distinct crackle from somewhere off in the distance, and another, and then one more after that. Josh squints over at the lights flickering through the hospital blinds. Midnight must be close.

"Fireworks," Donna whispers to Josh, passing the baby over to him. "Every year, she'll think they're just for her."

"They will be," he whispers back. "They are."

Donna sleeps, and Josh kisses her again with the baby cradled in his arms. The year changes.

So does he.

(Three hours later:

"I've been thinking, Donna."

"Oh, God."

"Toby stopped by and gave me pizza. He says hi."

"What! You said you'd wake me up if anything good happened!"

"This pizza? Not good."

"But I'm so hungry."

"I'll find you a better pizza. Anyway, after we gave up trying to eat, Toby showed me how to swaddle the baby, see? Like this."

"I know how to swaddle the baby, Josh. I paid attention in those classes."

"Toby's a better teacher. _Anyway._ When he finished swaddling her, he suggested a name. I keep looking at her, and you know how I hate to agree with Toby, but—"

"No. Josh, _no_."

"It's just that I've been thinking, and she really does look like a—"

"I don't care! We fought about this for eight months, and we have narrowed it down. She is going to be Miriam, Evelyn, or Jamie. _As planned._ "

"Okay, but those names suck."

"Did you or did you not once shout at me, 'If it's good enough for the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, it's good enough for my kid!'?"

"I was very wrong to do that."

"Toby Ziegler is not naming our daughter."

"I'm just gonna say it, Donna."

"I'm not listening to you—"

"Leah. I mean, I know we were saving 'Leo' for a boy, but just look at her. It fits."

"…"

"Donna? Are you, uh? Are you okay?"

"Not really."

"Why not?"

"Because it's perfect, and I'm mad I didn't think of it first."

"You can pick the middle name."

"You're damn right I can pick the middle name. In fact, I may pick two."

"We're official parents now. Named our kid and everything."

"No, _Toby_ named our kid. Would you stop grinning at me like that?"

"Have I mentioned lately how glow-y you look? Because you are just the glowiest.")


End file.
